


Crash Course

by PlotlessWanderer



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Child Neglect, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intermittent Homelessness, Neurodivergent Kyoutani Kentarou, Neurodiversity, Protectiveness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28251738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlotlessWanderer/pseuds/PlotlessWanderer
Summary: “I want more,” he managed to snarl from between gritted teeth, eyes drawn back to the court as though magnetized.“Kyoutani.” Iwaizumi waited until Kentarou grudgingly looked back at him before continuing. “The only way you’ll get more is during a match. The only way you’ll play during a match is if you practice. There is no way to have one without the other. Do you understand?”He nodded miserably. He did. Of course he understood. That didn't mean it was easy to do. Every time he came to practice he would try. Fuck, he tried so hard. But it would just whet his appetite and by the time the ball hit his palm he was starving for it.
Relationships: Kyoutani Kentarou & Aobajousai Volleyball Club, Kyoutani Kentarou & Yahaba Shigeru
Kudos: 20





	Crash Course

**Author's Note:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter
> 
> .... Another fandom I am only slightly familiar with. I only saw the first season once, and the others only a few episodes here and there. And I don't remember much, as per usual! Barely remember writing this, actually. But, because I'm going through all the stuff that remains on my (tragically diminished) hard-drive, I'll just throw it out here.

Watching as his breath fogged on every exhale, eyes following the cloud as it dissipated, Kentarou walked down a route his body knew by rote. It was comfortable, easy, avoiding potholes and the occasional crack in the sidewalk, listening to traffic purring by beyond the high wall separating this little residential neighborhood from the road. Animals rustled amongst the bags of garbage waiting for pickup, all stacked tidily in their respective alcoves. A rat froze as he strode by, beady eyes glinting in the yellowish glow of fading streetlights. 

It was cold. The fingers of the hand not tucked into the pocket of his hoodie were stiff and prickled painfully. He wished he’d had the forethought to grab his coat. Wished for the gloves he’d cut the fingers off of that his mom had tossed out. Again. 

Rolling his shoulders jerkily Kentarou increased his pace, riding down hill momentum until it was almost a run. The onigiri stuffed in his pocket was squashed and lumpy against his fingers, only held together by its cellophane wrapper. The convenience store bag hanging from his hand rebounded off his thigh with every step. It was cold, he was miserable, hungry and exhausted, but he was almost there. Around a corner, cutting tight through a narrow alley, up another street and there it was. 

It was a small park. Two swings, two benches, a plastic play set shaped like a turtle and a few small, manicured trees. There was a single light in the park, flickering and dim. 

Panting and wincing at the rush of air over cold chapped lips, Kentarou ducked into the turtle. It was a tight fit. He was forced to hunch broad shoulders uncomfortably close and wriggle in using mainly his feet. The body of the turtle was only hardly bigger. Just enough for him to curl into a loose ball around the convenience store bag like a cat around her kitten. 

But the tension that had been chasing him all evening immediately began to fade. It was dark and reassuringly tight in the turtle. Safe from things real and imagined. He rested his face against the abrasive matting of the floor for a moment, just closing his eyes in relief. Already the small space was heating with his body temperature. 

He could have stayed that way for the rest of the night but his stomach ached and grumbled and he was forced to prop against the turtle wall and dig for the onigiri. 

It was crumbled and squashed. He was forced to carefully craft a bowl out of the wrapper and eat the body warmed rice from cupped hands. It was plain and stale, just this side of disgusting, but it was food and that was really all that mattered. He licked up every last grain. 

The bag held much more palatable fair. An apple, banana, bottle of mineral water and a sushi bento. He sat admiring the spread for a moment in the dull wash of light from the turtles entrance. It was more than he would usually be able to afford but this particular store sold all lunch item specials at half off after ten thirty and on days such as today that was a boon not to be taken lightly. 

After eating he shoved the trash into the bag and knotted it tightly closed before lying down, tucked against the curve of the wall. 

His face hurt. He already knew what it looked like; swelling and angry red, with scratches peeking from beneath the close cropped hair at his left temple. His lip was split again, puffy and tender but he couldn't stop prodding it with his tongue. It tasted coppery. 

All things considered it wasn't that bad. His mouth would be ugly for a few days but the bruising would be minimal, if it appeared at all. He’d always been lucky in that regard; no tendency to scar and it took a lot to bruise. He had and would have worse. 

Still. That wasn't the reason he was out here at God Awful O’clock in the morning. No, that was solely due to the screaming. The neighbors had pounded on the apartment door and given the familiar ultimatum; either be quiet or they would call the police. 

Kentarou would have been content to hunker down in his closet and sulk quietly but his mom was in a fine state and followed after him, screaming and demanding attention. When she dragged him out by the ear he’d made a break for it, scooping up his shoes as he barreled out the door with a last salvo of curses before racing away as quickly as his feet would carry him. 

Aimless aggression had carried him around the district for a few hours while he waited for ten thirty but now he was just tired. Drained to the point of numbness. So he hunkered into his hoodie, pressed his face into up drawn knees and fell asleep.

The next morning he swung by home. His mother was asleep in her room, the door ajar. A store bought bento was sitting on the counter, his name written neatly on a post-it and he stuffed it in his book bag on the way out. There were never any apologies in this house; if his mother felt guilty about something she would leave a token of some kind. Food. Money. Coupons for volley ball equipment. A ten pack of colorful novelty socks once. 

Kentarou straightened the living room in acknowledgement of the lunch, throwing out empty beer cans and fluffing pillows. 

He arrived at school early enough to slither through the weak latched back window of the gym and mess around with a ball. When the bell chimed he slithered back out and made his way to class, cutting so close to being tardy he and the teacher arrived at the same moment through opposite doors. The man glared at him sourly and Kentarou grimaced right back. 

It was hell, of course. School always was. Math was okay, occasionally even fun. History impossible to follow much less retain. Literature, social studies and english all blurred together, the characters seeming to ooze together to form an incomprehensible soup on the pages. In PE he was once again forced to sit out of most of the team exercises or run laps around the gym. That still stung a little. He liked playing sports. Any kind that didn't involve physical contact. But one too many complaints about aggression or lack of cooperation had ensured he was set aside most of the time.

He just didn't see the point of slowing down just so everyone else could keep up. 

Finally, finally classes were over and Kentarou skulked his way to the gym. He arrived late due to going a circuitous route involving several windows and a shed roof to avoid a pack of third years that alternately pressured him to join their group or attempted to beat him up. He had yet to detect a pattern for which objective they had any given day. 

It was nice to have the locker room to himself though. 

Setting foot in the gym was always a rush. The scent of floor polish and sweat, the squeal of shoes and the popping thump of balls striking the floor, the occasional swish of the net. It was an electric sort of thrill every time. 

The first years were practicing receives under the watchful eye of the third years. Oikawa was doing whatever the hell an Oikawa did in the corner. It looked like he was molesting a ball, but Kentarou didn't care enough to look. Instead, his eyes immediately sought out Iwaizumi. 

The third year was spiking shots to the back, difficult placements and an emphasis on power as Watari scrambled to keep up. Kentarou hung back in the the doorway for a moment just watching them, two of his favorite teammates. He was happy to see that Watari had improved even more over the past months and was losing far fewer balls than before. 

Then Yahaba appeared.

“Finally decided to join us, I see.” The boy had shot up another two inches recently, his fluffy nimbus of hair making him seem even taller. 

Kentarou put more effort into his scowl and didn't answer. 

He liked Yahaba. This fact still surprised him but not unpleasantly. Yahaba was stronger willed than his froufy appearance and mannerisms initially indicated, and he was shaping up to be a competent player, both of which were things Kentarou could acknowledge. But what really cemented his interest was the fact that Yahaba no longer tolerated shit, his own or anyone elses. 

And that Kentarou could respect. 

Didn't mean Yahaba wasn't still a pretentious asshole. 

“If you're going to show up can’t you do it when everyone else does? Once were start practicing together in teams we won’t be able to just slot you in place whenever you turn up, you know.”

Kentarou stared unblinkingly and didn't so much as sigh. Yahaba huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Just warm up so we can practice, alright?”

“Already did,” Kentarou replied. His voice was thick and hoarse, the words difficult to form considering they were the first ones he’d spoken in over a day. 

“Did what? Warm up?”

Kentarou nodded because, yes, he did count avoiding third years as a decent warm up. They were tenacious. 

Yahaba groaned and scrubbed his face vigorously, something that sounded like “talking to a rock would be more rewarding” emerging from behind his hands. Kentarou enjoyed every second of it. 

“Fine,” Yahaba bit out shortly. “Good. Oikawa wants us to practice together, so I can learn your serve preferences.”

Kentaro grunted acknowledgement and stalked past the taller boy, just an inch away from slamming their shoulders. 

Practice went about as well as could be expected. Which was to say badly. Any success was down mostly to luck. Kentarou ignored direction and spiked however he pleased, nearly spraining Matsukawa’s finger by blowing though his block with sheer force.

At that point Iwaizumi dragged him off the court, Oikawa mirroring the action with Yahaba, who was all but vibrating with frustration. 

“You know better, Kyoutani,” was the first thing Iwaizumi said. They were in a corner, out of earshot of everyone else. Over the third years broad shoulder Kentarou could see Yahaba gesticulating wildly and Oikawa making patronizing soothing motions. 

Kentarou scowled and grunted. 

“Kyoutani.”

He suppressed a twitch. That tone of voice was rarely utilized but always effective. Iwaizumi had a way of talking that made Kentarou listen. He never raised his voice, never nagged or heckled or spoke down. There was just a firm tone and a demand for attention. Nothing less and nothing more, simply attention. 

Kentarou gave it. 

“You’re better than this. You can do better than this.” Iwaizumi met his eyes steadily, one of the few people who could without their gaze sliding away in discomfort. His arms were crossed, legs braced. Rock solid and immovable in every way. 

Kentarou shrugged jerkily and then continued to roll his shoulders with restless tension. 

“Why are you going off script again?”

Why, Kentarou echoed internally. The same way he did every practice. There was just never enough. The action was too slow, too calculated, too narrow. In a match there was nothing but adrenaline and instinct and you could never know what would happen next. Nothing was too slow then, there was always enough motion and action and focus. Practice was just… restraining. Stifling, in comparison. 

But he couldn't articulate that and was reduced to growling in frustration, rolling shoulders now joined by restless rocking from foot to foot. His fingers twitched with energy that had no outlet. 

“I want more,” he managed to snarl from between gritted teeth, eyes drawn back to the court as though magnetized. 

“Kyoutani.” Iwaizumi waited until Kentarou grudgingly looked back at him before continuing. “The only way you’ll get more is during a match. The only way you’ll play during a match is if you practice. There is no way to have one without the other. Do you understand?”

He nodded miserably. He did. Of course he understood. That didn't mean it was easy to do. Every time he came to practice he would try. Fuck, he tried so hard. But it would just whet his appetite and by the time the ball hit his palm he was starving for it. 

Yahaba and Oikawa seemed to have reached an understanding and were bent over a ball they were both holding as though it were a point of worship. Yahaba at least looked faintly uncomfortable but was gamely catering to his upperclassman as usual. 

“Kyoutani,” Iwaizumi said in a tone that indicated he had been repeating it. Kentarou snapped his attention back and Iwaizumi continued with unlimited patience. “You have more raw talent than anyone I have ever seen, on this team or any other. But none of that talent means shit on its own. Volleyball can only be played as a team.”

Kentarou just stared back helplessly. He wondered what would happen when the third years were gone, when Iwaizumi with his patience and Oikawa with his blind faith weren’t there anymore. How long before he proved to be more trouble than he was worth? How long before they replaced him? How long until he lost this?

Iwaizumi sighed and dropped a broad hand onto Kentarou’s shoulder. “Go back and try again.”

Kentarou did. 

For the last hour it went a little better, even if he felt as though he were being strangled the entire time. Felt like his fingers were going to explode from his hands with the sheer urge for More and Faster. 

As soon as it was over he ran outside and dropped to the frigid, damp grass and did pushups until the itch went away.

Mirazaki’s Noodle House was as generically bland as an eatery could be without fading out of existence. The door flaps were faded and raggedy edged, the tables and bar scuffed. Several of the stools were wobbling and the floor had the patina that spoke of thousands of feet treading the boards over the years. 

It was almost empty at this hour. Just two regulars, a silent old business man who spent his weekly visit drinking too much sake and staring at the dregs of his bowl, and a skinny foreigner with too much straw colored hair and massive plugs in their earlobes. Kentaro didn't know whether they were male or female and cared even less. 

Ignoring the two of them he ducked around the counter into the narrow kitchen, grunting a greeting at the owner while he scrubbed his hands and donned hat and apron. He had long ago shed his school jacket and shirt and was dressed in a tight t shirt he’d had since middle school. Mirazaki eyed him with distaste. 

The owner was an ancient little man so cadaverously thin you could see every individual bone and tendon in his frame. One eye was clouded and several teeth were missing. When he deigned to speak he was nearly impossible to understood beneath the accumulated smoke damage of God knew how many years. 

But he was willing to hire Kentarou, who was just as unappealing to the eye as himself and with even worse customer skills. Better, he paid cash, always and didn't pry. 

Which was more than could be said for his granddaughter. Mei was the antithesis of her grandfather in every conceivable way. Bubbly, curvaceous, personable to the point of ridiculousness, she was probably the sole reason the Noodle House still existed. She ran the business while Mirazaki loitered in the kitchen like some sort of fungus. Thankfully she was incapable of cooking anything edible; otherwise Kentarou would have been redundant a long time ago. 

So when she swung out of the stock room and locked eyes with him, Kentarou hid a wince. 

“Ken-chan!” She exclaimed joyfully, dropping the sack of cabbage and a basket of shrimp and lunging across the kitchen to cup his face in soft, tiny hands. “What happened to your gloriously grumpy little face? A cat?”

Kentarou remorselessly brushed away her fingers as they traced the barely visibly line of scabs peeking from his hairline. “Nothing.”

“Not nothing.” Mei stated and pinched his nose. Thankfully she chose to drop the matter. “How was practice?”

Kentarou shrugged and Mei sighed sympathetically. She had become fluent in Kyoutani-speak years ago, when he was still in middle school and even angrier than he was now. 

“Thats too bad.” She followed him like an oversized puppy as he rescued the food from the floor and set up a station to devein the shrimp. “They should treat you better.”

“They’re good,” Kentarou grumbled half heartedly, moved to defend Iwaizumi at least but loath to engage the crazy woman. It never ended well for him. 

“Really? I might believe that if you actually told me when they played so I could see myself.” It was said airily but Kentarou would not be fooled. 

“Customers,” Mirazaki rasped from his stool and Mei heaved a massive sigh, breasts straining against the confines of her soft jewel blue sweater. 

“Fine, fine old man. I’m going.” Stretching on her toes she pressed a dry kiss against Kentarou’s jaw. “And I’ll come back and visit with you later.”

It was a threat Kentarou was unable to escape. He went back to the shrimp to avoid thinking about it. 

Several hours later, after the late lunch, dinner, and late dinner rush was over Kentarou managed to trade off with the late night cook and escape Mei’s clutches with only a container of left overs and a another awkward kiss. 

Mirazaki was waiting for him in the side alley, seated on the metal stairs that led to the tiny apartment above the shop. He was smoking, the embers casting his face into something sharp and nightmarish. He glanced at Kentarou and waved vaguely at his leg. “How’s it doing?”

Cupping a hand over his thigh he shrugged. “Good. No infection.”

Mirazaki hummed thoughtfully and eyed him. 

Kentarou scowled. “Its true.”

“Better be, brat.”

They lapsed into sneering, scowling silence before Kentarou scoffed and marched away. 

He knew the mans concern wasn't entirely uncalled for. Two weeks back a trio of drunk students had invaded the shop and harassed Mei. After driving the discomforted other customers from the premises with their behavior they had become progressively cruder and aggressive. One had tried to stuff his hand up Mei’s skirt. 

Kentarou had leapt the counter and slammed the bastards head into the table, repeatedly and with purpose. 

It took one of the students friends hysterically slashing his leg with a broken piece of plateware for him to release the man. He moved on to dragging them out the door and punting them into the street, one barely nconscious and bleeding, the others screaming. Then he barricaded himself in the restroom and quietly fell apart. 

Distantly he heard Mei screaming angrily back at them. He didn't know what she’d said but somehow no police were called and Kentarou was not dragged to prison. By the time she and Mirazaki had come back inside Kentarou had taped a towel to his leg and hobbled away. 

It took a week for him to gather the courage to come back. When Mei pounced on him in aggressive concern he had turned right around and left. When he came back the next day no one mentioned the incident.

He was grateful for that. He knew another inch, just slightly more pressure or a little better aim and he could have bled out on the floor. As it was the cut waw shallow, hardly more than a scratch. He’d had and would have worse. All he cared about was not getting arrested.

The container sloshed rhythmically as he made his way home. Halfway there he stopped at a park, larger but dingier than last night’s and ate the slightly too soggy, barely warm udon. Mei had drawn flowers and a plethora of rabidly cute pandas on the lid. He stared at it for a long moment, unsure whether to cringe or smile. He settled for tucking it in his pocket. 

His mother was home. 

Kentarou paused on the threshold for a tense moment, searching for any hint as to her mood. Her teal purse was perched on the small table by the door, her heels arranged neatly in the corner. The cock-eyed picture on the wall had been straightened, a sour faced, fat Kentarou glaring from his mothers arms and his father standing with a hand tucked around her waist. They were disturbingly young and happy.

“Kentarou?”

Kyoutani Yumei had a clear, bright voice more common to anime than real life. When she wasn't screaming at the top of her lungs at least. 

“I’m home,” Kentarou called and slipped out of his shoes, not bothering to align them. 

His mother was perched on the couch, a pillow in her lap. Her hair was down, thick and glossy black. Without the care and conditioning she lavished on it daily it would have been as tough and unruly as her sons.

“How was school?”

“It was good. So was work.” Her eyes followed him as he took in the plate of curry and rice sitting on the table, covered and waiting for him. All the dishes were washed and in the drying wrack. “What about you?”

The tension uncoiled from her shoulders and she laughed. “Terrible! Did you know, they replaced my section chief again? Really, for the fifth time this year. I’m beginning to think we’re just there to provide experience points for potential managers.” 

Though the udon was still heavy in his stomach Kentaro carried the plate into the living room, settling on the floor with his back against the couch and his knees tucked under the coffee table. Food was not to be taken for granted, ever. “Thats fucked.” 

His mother swatted his head lightly. “Language. But yes. All I need to do is answer the phone and listen to people complain. What need is there for a manager in the first place?”

Kentarou made a listening sound around a mouthful of curry. It was faintly sweet. 

“I apologized to the neighbors. Bought them chocolate and everything.” She sighed. “I was hoping they would invite me in for tea, but at least they forgave us. Again.”

His mother was always charming, charming enough to ensure that no matter how exasperated the neighbors became they would never complain to the landlord. Which was good, considering they couldn't afford to be evicted. This was the only two bedroom apartment they could afford. 

His mother uncurled, feet dropping down to the floor. Her toes were painted a delicate pink, the left pinkie chipped. 

“Your father called last night.”

Kentarou knew. That had been the precursor to the entire shitty evening and it was hard to miss when his mother was screaming into the phone. 

“He won’t be taking you over christmas. Says he needs to focus on his wife and children.”

Kentarou had heard that too. He still made an acknowledging sound. 

“Of course he doesn't bother to take into account if I have any plans,” she continues. she still sounds soft, faintly exasperated, but he can hear the trace of bitterness underneath. “I’m a single parent. What could I possibly do on christmas?”

He was beginning to see where this was going. It had been a common enough theme since he was twelve and his mother was invited to a company mixer. She’d stumbled in late with a man all but superimposed over her, only to find her son lurking in the kitchen. The man had left.

Now she determinedly tried to see him safely ensconced across the city with his father. Failing that he was encouraged to ‘stay with friends, here, have some christmas spending money’ despite both of them knowing he had no friends. He never said as much. 

Yumei worked and rarely had the opportunity to date. With him as her son it was difficult to bring even friends home, much less a man. He knew she was lonely, and if one fling a year gave her a moment of joy he wouldn't begrudge that. 

“Friends want to hang out, house jump over break. That okay with you?”

“Really?” She asked brightly, finally turning to look him in the face. He couldn't tell whether she knew if he was lying or not. “Of course thats okay! Maybe its a good thing your father is busy.”

“Yeah,” Kentaro muttered unenthusiastically as he carried his empty plate to the sink. “Maybe.”

**Author's Note:**

> TWs for child abuse, sleeping outdoors, food insecurity??? sorta??? Past tense sexual harassment/assault (not Kentarou) and physical assault. Please let me know if I missed something.
> 
> Now, in regards to the Neurodiversity, its never going to be explicitly exactly how he is. No, like, diagnoses or anything like that. Its just that when I saw him for the first time my brain just went 'gasp! I recognize you!'. Whether or not that is only because of me or if there is actually something recognizable there is anyones guess. 
> 
> I might delete this later, considering I'm a bit unsure of writing in this particular fandom. But for now, I hope you enjoyed! Comment if inclined and have a good week


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